To pleasures of the country-side
My lady-love is lightly flown;
And now in cities to abide
Betrays a heart of stone.

Venus herself henceforth will choose
Only in field and farm to walk,
And Cupid but the language use
Which plough-boy lovers talk.

O what a ploughman I could be!
How deep the furrows I would trace,
If while I toiled, I might but see
My mistress' smiling face!

A farmer true, I'd guide my team
Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands,
Nor murmur at the noon-day beam,
Or my soft, blistered hands.

Once fair Apollo fed the flocks
Of King Admetus, like a swain;
Little availed his flowing locks,
His lyre was little gain.

No virtuous herb to reach that ill
His heavenly arts of healing knew;
For love made vain his famous skill,
And all his art o'er-threw.

Himself his herds afield he drove,
Or where the cooling waters stray;
Himself the willow baskets wove,
And strained out curds and whey.

Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear
A calf adown some pathless place;
And oft Diana met him there,
And blushed at his disgrace.

O often, if his voice divine
Echoed the mountain glens along,
Out-burst the loud, audacious kine,
And bellowing drowned his song.

His tripods prince and people found
All silent to their troubled cry,
His locks dishevelled and unbound
Woke fond Latona's sigh.

To see his pale, neglected brow,
And unkempt tresses, once so fair,—
They cried, "O where is Phoebus now?
"His glorious tresses, where?"

"In place of Delos' golden fane,
"Love gives thee but a lowly shed!
"O, where are Delphi and its train?
"The Sibyl, whither fled?"

Happy the days, forever flown,
When even immortal gods could dare
Proudly to serve at Venus' throne,
Nor blushed her chain to wear!

"Irreverent fables!" I am told.
But lovers true these tales receive:
Rather a thousand such they hold,
Than loveless gods believe.

O Ceres, who didst charm away
My Nemesis from life in Rome,
May barren glebe thy pains repay
And scanty harvest come!

A curse upon thy merry trade!
Young Bacchus, giver of the vine!
Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid
Far sweeter than thy wine.

Let herbs and acorns be our meat!
Drink good old water! Better so
Than that my fickle beauty's feet
To those far hills should go!

Did not our sires on acorns feed,
And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale?
Our furrowed fields they did not need,
Nor did love's harvest fail.

When passion did their hearts employ,
And o'er them breathed the blissful hour,
Mild Venus freely found them joy
In every leafy bower.

No chaperone was there, no door
Against a lover's sighs to stand.
Delicious age! May Heaven restore
Its customs to our land!

Nay, take me! In my lady's train
Some stubborn field I fain would plough
Lay on the lash and clamp the chain!
I bear them meekly now.